Third Degree by Julie Cross Page A

gasping loudly. I press my fingers to his wrist and instinctively reach for an imaginary stethoscope around my neck. I have to settle for laying an ear against his chest, listening to his breathing. His heart rate speeds up as a result of the medicine. I lift my head when I hear his teeth chattering.
    “Do you feel nauseous?” I ask.
    He shakes head and closes his eyes. I decide not to take a chance and roll him slightly on his side. The reddish blue color of his face is quickly fading to pale and his hands and legs are visibly trembling.
    “Is it nuts?”
    He shakes his head again and his fingers grapple around for the sleeve of his shirt. When he lifts it, I lean closer and see the raised red mark. Immediately I play back our run around the track and try to recall him reacting to an insect sting, but can’t, despite the fact that I’d been staring at his back almost the whole time.
    “Bees or wasps?”
    “Bees,” he manages to say.
    That explains his delayed concerns. Accidental ingestion of food allergens is much morecommon than being stung by a bee. At least he takes it seriously and carries the EpiPen on him.
    “Izzy?”
    I finally allow the background noise to reenter my radar. Marshall is kneeling in front of the patient, studying his face. “Why are his teeth chattering? Is he going into shock?”
    “He already went into shock. It’s the epinephrine making him feel cold. That’s normal.”
    Sirens blare in the background and quickly grow louder and closer. I press my fingers to his wrist again and tune out the noise, counting his beats. When I’m finished, there are two paramedics in front of us. I fight off the instinct to snatch one of their stethoscopes and listen to his chest.
    “Pulse is one-eighty, epinephrine four minutes ago. He needs oxygen, albuterol treatment, and antihistamines,” I rattle off.
    Both paramedics pause for a split second to look me over, probably trying to decide if I’m more than a student. “What’s his name?”
    Oh. They aren’t jumping to the conclusion that I’m a teenage doctor; they think I’m his girlfriend or a relative. “I don’t know … something Longfield.”
    “Joe,” Holloway says, reading off his clipboard. “Joseph Longfield.”
    Both paramedics and Holloway are now giving me strange looks.
    “Her sister has peanut allergies,” Marshall lies, coming to my rescue.
    Okay, Izzy, you’re done. Back away from the patient. Pretend it’s an ER consult that turns out to be non-surgical .
    I carefully slide backward, allowing the female paramedic to move into my spot. She’s collecting the used EpiPen, tucking it into her shirt pocket. She glances over at me. “How long ago, did you say?”
    “Six now. His airway was completely constricted, so he might only have a few more minutes.”
    Joe grabs hold of the girl’s shirt. “Wait, it’s gonna happen again?”
    The girl gives him a warm smile. “Nope. Not a chance. We’ll take care of you.”
    I finally feel secure enough to stand up and dust off my pants. Holloway shouts that class is over— duh —and then he follows the stretcher to the ambulance. I take my time walking over to the inside of the track to retrieve my water bottle, and on the way a couple of students pat me on the back and say, “Good job,” which is a nice contrast to the glares I got after the last class. The ambulance backs out of the parking lot, and Holloway is nowhere in sight. He must have gone to the hospital with Joe.
    As I’m heading toward the dorm, I barely notice Marshall joining me. He holds his hand out in front of me, displaying the obvious tremble. “I’m still freaking out. How are you not?”
    “You mean about blowing my cover?”
    “I mean about the dude who almost died right in front of us!” Marshall stares at me, this incredulous expression on his face like I’m an alien and he can’t figure out what planet I’ve descended from. “He couldn’t breathe, right? It totally looked like he